I had to take Mr. Andy A. Doodle to the emergency vet today, which wasn’t great. The tab ran half a grand, which also wasn’t great. But Mr. Andy is fine, which is great. And I got this vet office selfie out of it, which is also pretty great.
Category: aminals.
Canine maintenance
I am happy to report that the three household doggos passed their annual technical inspection with flying colors.
(Left to right: Baby, Andy, and Ygraine a.k.a. Dinky.)
Things a dachshund owner knows, #2,198.
This is why we tell guests and visitors to keep food items on the counters well away from the edges. People underestimate the vertical reach of a determined dachshund.
avian squatters.
These little guys are currently costing me $5 a day.
We rented a huge dumpster for our long-overdue major spring cleaning and attic junk culling. It costs a flat amount up front that includes the fee for dumping all the trash, and then $5 per day for every day we keep the dumpster beyond the included 5-day period.
I hauled a bunch of old furniture out onto the porch before the dumpster arrived so I’d be able to just take everything apart and chuck it into the dumpster. Right after they delivered the unit, we found that a robin had built its nest on one of the furniture piles sheltered underneath the overhang from the porch roof. There were little blue eggs in there, which turned into the little fuzzy birds you see in the picture above. I can’t remove the furniture until the wee ones have flown the nest because I don’t want to displace them, which would kill the baby robins. So the meter on the dumpster is running. On the other hand, it gives me a good excuse to take my time with the cleaning of the attic, which is handy because right now my priority is finishing Frontlines #4 anyway.
Here’s the parental unit, collecting protein for the kids in our backyard:
Like Dr. Jeff Goldblum said in that Mostly Cretaceous Park movie—“Life will find a way.”
uther hendragon, first of his name.
This painting of Henry was commissioned by my friend Chang for me after Henry died, and he brought it to Castle Frostbite with him when he came to visit not too long ago.
I still miss my boy terribly, especially right now. The days are sunny and warm, and the remaining dachshunds are having a great time sunning themselves in the backyard or running around on the lawn and barking at passing cars. Henry would have enjoyed this, especially after being cooped up for months during this last, awful winter. But life goes on, as it does.
I’m keeping that painting in my new office for now until I have a suitable place to hang it. I’m very glad to have such good friends.
home.
He’s home among his family again, where he belongs. I feel a little better now.
personal effects.
Henry’s collection of bandanas. He got one every time he had to make a trip to the emergency vet. There are three of them in that picture, but I think there was at least one more I did not keep for some reason. As you can see, he was a little mischief magnet.
I am still heartbroken. I have barely eaten since Sunday and have had no desire to eat. (Henry would think this foolishness.) Things have gotten a tiny bit easier, and sorting through his things and looking at his pictures has helped a little. I won’t truly start to get back to real life until his ashes come home and I have some sort of closure.
I don’t want to keep depressing people with posts about my dog, but writing about him and sharing it has helped me to process the whole thing. When it happened, it was just too fast and traumatic to let me feel anything but numbness for a while. Still, everything in the house reminds me of the fact that he’s no longer there, and it will take time before it doesn’t feel like a fresh wound anymore.
Dogs. To think we opened our home and our hearts to these creatures that can wound us so very much when they take their leave. People have suggested we go and get another dog once we feel the time is right, but we have other dogs. Just having another dog is not the point, and never was. Henry was that once-in-a-lifetime dog for me, the one you bond with above and beyond all the others, the one that has your heart in a way the other dogs don’t quite manage. Before Henry, you could have asked me “Has there been a special dog in your life?”, and I would have answered, “What are you talking about? They have all been special.”
Now I can say, “Yes, and his name was Henry, and there will never be another one like him.”
And I don’t want to try and look for the thing we had in another dog. It happened on its own, not because I sought it out, and trying to duplicate it would be a disservice to him and diminish our bond, and it wouldn’t be fair to the new dog because this is a pair of shoes no other dog can ever hope to fill. (Or tear to shreds, as the case may be.)
No, I think I’ll leave it be, and rest in the knowledge that I had my time with him, and that I was lucky to have had it.
losing one’s heart.
Henry’s death is hitting me hard.
We’ve lost dogs before, and I grieved for them every time, but this one is a deeper hurt that any of the others. The ones we lost before Henry had been barely born, or they were old and had long and happy lives behind them. Even Sam, my Golden Retriever who died accidentally back in 2002, was nine years old and had lived almost a full life. Henry hadn’t even come into his own as an adult dog yet—he was barely three, and still infused with the vigor and hotheadedness of youth.
I can’t really pinpoint what hurts the most about his untimely death. It’s the sum of all the contributing factors, I suppose. Part of it is the speed of his decline. There was no time for me to even prepare for the possibility that he might not come back.
Part of it is the bond I had with him. He was truly my dog, and I was his favorite human, and he loved me deeply. Sitting in this chair, I won’t ever see him rounding the kitchen corner again and then just taking a quick sprint and an effortless leap into my lap (whether I was working or not), for the customary expression of love where he tried to merge his face with mine and nip at my nose.
Part of it is the way in which we went. I was there at the end, but I will always hate the fact that he got to spend the last two days of his short life in a place he didn’t like, with people he didn’t love. I should have been with him then.
Part of it is the knowledge of all the time that was taken from him. After having suffered through this winter with the rest of us, he won’t get to experience spring again, won’t get to lie on the warm patio stones with the other dogs and joyfully bark at passing bicyclists and joggers. We won’t get to walk out in the autumn air again, just him in his chest harness and me holding the leash and letting him map the world with his nose.
The house is much too quiet now. All the activity that used to annoy me a little when I was trying to work—the scurrying, the probing of cabinet doors for an unlatched one, the patrolling of the kitchen for dropped food—all of it has ceased. The three remaining dogs are snuggled up in front of the pellet stove and quietly napping. Little Ygraine keeps looking for her playmate and protector on occasion, and it breaks my heart all over again because we got her as a companion for him, and he’s gone, and she will be all alone when the two old dogs are gone too.
I have a deadline, so I have to go back to work and write, and maybe it will take my mind off thinking about my little buddy, who will never sit on my lap and look out of the window for squirrels again. But I go back to work with a broken heart. It will come back together in time, as it usually does, but a piece of it will be gone for good, and it will have the shape of a stout, happy, smart, and loving black-and-red dachshund.
how to story, in sixty seconds.
Yeah, it’s a commercial for a beer, but it’s also a perfect master class in storytelling. Setting, characterization, conflict/motivation, peril, emotional climax, satisfying resolution, denouement. Themes: friendship, loyalty, love. All squeezed into one minute. Not a second is wasted on anything that doesn’t drive the narrative.This is how you do Story.
bors, 2000-2014.
Bors, a.k.a. Booger Boy, a.k.a. Elder Dog, is no longer with us.
He had a seizure of some sort a week ago, but bounced back to normal very quickly. This morning, it happened again, only there was no bounce. He went quietly in front of the pellet stove, the favorite doggy spot in the winter, with all the other dogs nearby and us there to comfort him. He was 14 and in declining health, so it wasn’t a surprise, but it’s always sad when they finally pack their bags for Rainbow Bridge.
Unfortunately, it happened ten minutes before school bus time, so the kids are a little upset this morning, especially Lyra. Later this morning, I’ll be taking the Booger to our regular vet to have him cremated, and then we’ll have another long conversation about death and dying when the kids get home. It’s their first hands-on brush with mortality–Guinevere, Bors’ mother, went two years ago, but Robin took her to the vet for that last service while the kids were at school. This one was up close and personal for them.
Bors was a sweet boy, an eternal puppy, good-natured and easy-going. He was a therapy dog for a while–he visited the old folks in the nursing home and made the rounds with Robin while she worked there. (He was the New Hampshire Health Care Association’s Volunteer of the Year in 2011, beating out a bunch of humans for the title.) One of her patients used to have dachshunds before she moved into the nursing home, and that dog’s visits were the highlight of her week every time. She passed away two or three years ago, and in this instance, I’m pretty sure that Bors is going to have someone waiting for him at Rainbow Bridge already.
Farewell, Bors. We’ll miss you terribly, but we are glad you could join us for a while.
